


this land alone is not enough

by LucentPetrichor



Series: this land alone is not enough [1]
Category: Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: -ahem- I make no apology whatsoever, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Author regrets nothing, Gen, author rues and laments many things, but author regrets nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucentPetrichor/pseuds/LucentPetrichor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, long ago, far far away... Well, actually not all that long ago because some of this happens about eighteen years in the future. Not all that far away either, at least from me but I suppose for a lot of you reading this. However, the narrative convention of fairy tales demands certain rules so without further ado; Once upon a time, long ago there was a golden kingdom that went by the name of Patria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this land alone is not enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salomonderiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/gifts).



> Forever thanks to [Abi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/salomonderiel) for beta'ing, cheerleading and being Abi. Our love is that of faerytales. I think.

Once upon a time, long ago, far far away... Well, actually not all that long ago because some of this happens about eighteen years in the future. Not all that far away either, at least from me but I suppose for a lot of you reading this. However, the narrative convention of fairy tales demands certain rules so without further ado; Once upon a time, long ago there was a golden kingdom that went by the name of Patria.

The King and Queen of this kingdom had been blessed with a son, a golden haired Adonis of a son whose radiance shone as brightly as his passion and verve for life itself, a symbol for the prosperous future that he would lead. His name was writ in stone (quite literally, there was a statue and a ceremony and everything) as Enjolras.

~*~

You know, I think I might be going a bit overboard with this. Little bit? Okay, noted. Onwards!

~*~

Time passed, as it has a wonderful way of doing, and Enjolras grew into a fine young Prince. He mastered the art of orating at the tender age of seven and used it to great effect, whipping the lordlings of the court into a revolutionary frenzy, albeit an adorably tiny one. Lords Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire and L’aigle (his father was a visiting ambassador and dignitary, his slightly unfortunate name wasn’t his fault) ran whooping through the corridors of the castle, following their illustrious leader in a merry chase away from their respective nurses and the tyranny of enforced naptime. Enjolras was of the opinion that sleep was a natural occurrence and should be left to happen of its own accord, having just started learning about the basic structure of the cosmos i.e. how the sun and moon worked. His tutor later received a stern lecture from nanny dearest on the propriety of teaching that left him shaking and full of memories of his dearly beloved but terrifying as any matriarch on a righteous rampage grandmother. Yes, it was clear that Prince Enjolras was going to grow up with a healthy respect for womankind. However he never quite got the hang of knowing when to shut up, leading to many time outs in the naughty corner. In the corner’s defence, it was a very nice corner; lots of filigree. Then again, this was the royal abode, filigree was expected. But I digress.  
Clutching a lengthy scrap of red cloth, Enjolras had led them into the more or less empty throne room, looped the cloth around the large door handles to secure them, and started casting around for something heavy to block the obnoxiously large doors. On his second sweeping look, his gaze zeroed in on a very large, quite shiny object on a raised dais: the throne. At the same time Prouvaire, from his post guarding the doorway, raised a great warning blast on a purloined herald trumpet and promptly fell forward from the weight of it. What followed was a veritable lesson in the collective strength of several young boys with a singular but very strange goal in mind. What followed that was an in depth study in how the respective nannies of several young boys are collectively very scary and can successfully persuade the royal guard to scale the castle walls in order to un-barricade the previously mentioned obnoxiously large doors. What can we say; the royal throne is very heavy and the throne room doors swing but one way and one way only and that way is inwards – an unfortunate fact for any wishing to enter from the outside.

~*~

Time continued to pass – the gods will it to be so and so it is so and there are possibly too many mentions of the word ‘so’ here – and Enjolras grew from an opinionated young boy into an even more opinionated young man.

As previously mentioned, our protagonist was but human, however much his features seem to have been sculpted by angels, and as such was cursed with a good many faults. Pride, stubbornness, an inability to know when to shut up...

But the most important one to pay attention to was an extremely keen sense of curiosity as this is where our story really begins. Now this was not to say that Prince Enjolras was nosy; merely... fiercely inquisitive. Cursed as he was with this meddlesome nature, nightfall came and Morpheus along with it. At least for most of the kingdom, as sadly Morpheus forgot to visit Enjolras and he lay awake in the dark wondering about the dark haired stranger who’d dared to embark on such a stupid endeavour that afternoon and was now most likely a few dozen feet below his bedroom. Sulking slightly, Enjolras rolled over onto his side and shut his eyes, determined to forget the events of the day. While it had broken the monotonous drone of his father’s chancellor moaning about Enjolras’ giving his patronage to another charity, the memory of the flustered and very clattery arrival of Flunky No. 5 announcing that there had been a capture in the Royal Tower left a weight in his stomach. Although that could also be attributed to his mother’s weekly attempt at cooking in the kitchens but of course, to speak of such things would be verging on treason and therefore there is only so far that one can talk about such matters.

Cooking attempts aside, there was something about the thief’s eyes, one impressively blacked up, as he met Enjolras’ when he was led down to the dungeons, past where Enjolras stood in the doorway – having run up several flights of stairs to find out what the deuce was happening. Well, captivating eyes beat listening to droning and even Enjolras had been having a hard time keeping awake. Now he was having a hard time going to sleep. The world was a cruel place, full of juxtaposition and fate and Enjolras was being targeted by both.

Sighing heavily, his eyes snapped open and he turned to stare at the ceiling, despairing of how this became his life. Outside a mockingbird began its piping song, seemingly unaware that it was really not meant to be awake at night and henceforth of the double irony in its taunting melody.

Glaring at the window and the wayward bird, Enjolras sat upright in his four poster bed. It was all terribly cliché, all bright red hangings and (locally sourced; our Prince was far ahead of his time when it came to conservation) oak wood. He scowled at nothing and then decided that if Morpheus wasn’t going to visit him tonight, that was his issue and Enjolras was going to do some investigating instead. He was absolutely not sulking at the situation as a whole.

However, he was going to practise his skulking (a prince must know how to walk quietly, at least so said Bahorel, his bodyguard and teacher of the slightly less princely fighting skills) and he was going to do so by paying a visit to the dungeons. Mind made up, he pulled a deep red blanket off his bed, wrapped it around his shoulders and stalked out.

~*~

The thief was pacing the floor at the front of his cell when Enjolras came down the stairs and retreated to the back of the cell when the guards were dismissed with a languid wave and a slightly snappy, “He’s behind bars, he’s like my age and I can take care of myself! And I trust you’ll be right behind me, should anything actually happen.”

“Everything all right, Apollo?”

The thief leaned back on his pallet with his head against the wall and lifted his hip flask to take a pull. Enjolras sighed internally and wondered about the security clearance of the dungeon guards as they had confiscated all but the thief’s flask. Then he got distracted by said thief’s profile, half in shadow, a pale stripe of his throat exposed from leaning back against the stone wall, and once again cursed his curiosity.

“It’s Enjolras, actually.”

Grantaire, as this was our oh-so-witty-and-would-be-burglar’s chosen name, opened his eyes and looked at the proffered hand shoved through the bars of his cell, “How could we forget,” he muttered, half to himself, “Grantaire. You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake your hand, I think I fell when I got shoved in here and dungeon floors leave a little something to be desired,” He smirked slightly as Enjolras withdrew his hand hesitantly, “I ask again, was there a reason for your visit, _Apollo_?”

Enjolras frowned. Grantaire grinned even wider.

“Call me R.”

Enjolras winced, “That’s awful.”

“I thought it was rather witty.”

“Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same question. I wouldn’t really call the arsecrack of dawn appropriate visiting hours, now, would you?”

“You will answer the Prince Regent.”

“My my, I can almost hear the capital letters. Very well; your guards arrested me.”

There was a pause.

“... after they caught me from the ceiling. Literally fell into the arms of one of them. Bahorel, I think his name was. Lovely fellow; strong arms.”

Enjolras glared.

“As fascinating as I find your glower, why are you glowering?”

Enjolras smoothed his expression back to impassivity, “Why did you attempt such a damned _stupid_ burglary? On the palace, no less!”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” The response was met by Enjolras’ astounded gaze and a hastily stifled snigger from Guard A, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Guard B, standing on the other side of the stairs and having slightly more experience as he was Guard A’s older brother and was overseeing his first dungeon duty and the family were so very proud of their youngest son finding his feet, coughed to disguise a huff of amusement.

“It was phenomenally stupid.”

“And is that the overwhelming consensus? Because, as I remember, I was doing quite well on the burglary front, I even climbed back up the rope to the roof again, no one noticed a thing. Incidentally, use one of your smaller towers as the Royal one; this one’s hell to climb.”

“Where’s the crown?”

“No idea. Got taken off me, remember? Can’t your interrogatory people do this tomorrow?”

“I’m curious. Wait. Taken off you?”

Grantaire sighed, “Right, as his grace commands. Are you going to keep on standing there, arms crossed and all that?”

Enjolras uncrossed his arms slowly and motioned for one of the guards to bring over the stool in the corner. Guard A squeaked quietly in his excitement at obeying his first Royal command. Thankfully for his pride, the sound was credited to an exuberant mouse who was actually a cursed wizard needing to regain his outer form by being present for three princely epiphanies and had just one more to hear before he could wreak havoc and petty revenge on his wife who was the one who had cursed him for snoring too loudly. Never fear, dear reader, they loved each other but as well you know, love manifests in very weird ways. It has been known to manifest in dingy dungeons several times, or so many of the stories say. However, I digress and Grantaire’s incarceration story is of paramount importance right now.

“I know who has it now but I don’t know where they are.”

Enjolras leaned forward, despite himself, to hear Grantaire; strands of long unbound hair falling over his face. Grantaire’s breath hitched the barest amount and he recovered himself masterfully with a laugh, “You love this, don’t you! Daring tales of derring do, rakish rogues, _faerytales_!”

“Hardly,” Enjolras said with a haughty sniff, “Faerytales are easy; you can buy faerytale adventures at the market if you know the right people –”

“Let me guess, you know the right people.”

“No, actually.” If there was a wistful note in Enjolras’ voice, it was very well hidden.

Grantaire eyed Enjolras but said no more on the subject, “Anyway. I don’t suppose you know about Patron-Minette?”

“Yes!” Enjolras coloured a little, “I mean. Yes. We’ve been trying to get hold of them for as long as I can remember. We can’t even get decent ‘wanted’ posters made; either no one remembers enough about the faces behind those masks or they’re too frightened to say. And Éponineknowsofthem...”

“No one remem – Wait, Éponine? I know an Éponine... Dark haired girl, sharp right hook, even sharper tongue? How on earth do you know her?”

“Prince. Patron of the orphanages, she hangs around the one closest to the palace.” He didn’t elaborate and Grantaire didn’t push, “How do _you_ know her?”

Grantaire shrugged with one shoulder, “I know everyone. Now. Patron-Minette, leader goes by the name of Montparnasse –” Grantaire paused to see if Enjolras would startle at the name. He was disappointed, “He’s the one took the crown off me and pushed me off the roof into the lovely strong arms of your Bahorel. Lucky he was there or there’d be a very nice red R-shape on your tower floor. Give him my thanks, would you? I was too stunned at the time to say anything even halfway coherent.” He tipped his head back and took another long drag from the flask.

Enjolras was gaping slightly, having stopped breathing a little at the mention of Grantaire being pushed off the roof, then shook himself back to lucidity, “How did you know it was Montparnasse?”

“Um.”, was the very eloquent response.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, “Grantaire...”

If Courfeyrac had been present, he would have been cowering behind Jehan who would be comparing Enjolras’ steely tone of voice to swords or some such. However he was not and the role of cowering was left to your narrator who performed it with gusto.

Grantaire sighed explosively, “Okay, fine, I’d recognise that smug mug of his a mile off. We ran together once upon a time before mutual backstabbings occurred.”

“How well can you draw?”

Grantaire wiggled ink covered hands at him, hard to spot in the half dark of the cell.

“Would you?”

“Would you let me out of here if I did?”

The whole dungeon seemed to hold its breath, wooden beamed intercostal muscles contracting and stone wall ribs expanding as your narrator revised human anatomy while waiting for Enjolras’ reply. Guards A and B leaned in closer, the enchanted mouse ventured closer to a hole in the wall ready and waiting for its transformation.

“Drawing first.”

“Can I trust you?”

It was a pointless question; he already did, gods only knew why. Formalities, however, had to be observed.

“I swear on... on you.”

“... ‘scuse you?”

“I swear on you, I trust you and gods know why but we’ve been talking for half an hour like we’ve known each other years.”

Grantaire hummed low in the back of his throat.

“I believe you capable of it. Only remember this one thing: be serious.”

Grantaire smiled and rose to crouch in front of the bars of his cell. Enjolras drew back slightly, only for Grantaire to motion him closer. Setting his lips as close to the side of Enjolras’ face as was possible, he whispered into the shell of his ear, “I am wild.” before retreating back to the pallet.

Enjolras shivered lightly. A small puff of glitter blew through a hole at the bottom of the wall. On the other side stood a tall bearded man, thankfully his beard covering his sensitive areas and shielding them to the elements and your narrator’s (who isn’t sure she gets paid enough for this level of mental scarring) tender eyes. We wish him luck in his petty revenge and hope that he and his wife continue to love each other for a very long time.  The alternative is a terrifying thought.

“You’ll need parchment?”

“No, I was going to scrawl on the walls.”

Guard A snickered.

Enjolras magnanimously ignored them both, “Graphite or ink?”

“Whichever’s easiest to procure, Apollo.”

“Sleep. I’ll be back in the morning,” Enjolras stood and turned to walk back to the stairs. He paused to turn back and held out the red blanket that he had been clutching over his shoulders for the past hour.  

“It’s cold.” he said by way of explanation and when Grantaire didn’t take the blanket, tossed it onto the pallet, and then walked out.

It was rather chilly, it has to be said; dungeons aren’t particularly well known or built for their capacity to retain heat. More for their foreboding and dark scariness, than anything else. Oh, and of course ability to retain prisoners.

Grantaire looked at the blanket, still warm from Enjolras’ body and picked it up slowly. He glanced at the pearly head that had just poked through the wall, and then glared. “Eh, sod off, it’s cold.”

~*~

Morning dawned and Enjolras arose earlier than usual, having slept for maybe an hour since his nightly escapade, looking the tiniest bit haggard. Only a tiny bit. Your narrator may be smitten but really, that is horrifically unfair; no one should look that good after spending most of the night tossing and turning with thoughts far below in the dungeons; one cell in particular and... _oh_. Oh dear. Stay tuned, dear readers, things may have just gotten very interesting indeed.  
He went to the window and looked out; the sun hadn’t quite risen yet but it was peeking over the horizon, painting the kingdom in deep red shadows, peach dotting the clouds here and there. Sleep deprivation makes everything seem prettier, but this really was rather gorgeous. Enjolras swung his legs out of bed to stand and stretch and here is where we will stop describing because no one wants to hear about the stretch of a lithe back arching, arms raised and unintentionally raising the hem of a nightshirt to reveal a rather taut stomach and the faintest line of hair trailing down, glowing lightly in the pale morning sun. Right? Ahem. Well, then.

Lacking a blanket, Enjolras looked at the now quite rumpled bedclothes ruefully. Well, he knew how to make a bed, it’d be fine. With this thought in mind, he dragged the heavy duvet off the bed and wrapped it around himself. Whether or not this was a wise decision is not for your humble narrator to say, but Enjolras now looked like a walking blanket burrito and roughly three times thicker than normal. Sadly, motor skills were heavily restricted when bundled up like this and Enjolras took one step before promptly falling over face first onto the bed. Fighting his way out of the evil clutches of the duvet, he stared around his chambers for something else to stave off the early morning cold of the castle before fixating on a heavy cloak behind the door. Perfect. So attired, Enjolras picked up several rolls of parchment, an ink bottle and a quill before slipping as quietly as he could out of his door.

Trotting through the castle, he thought he was doing quite well at not getting caught by any of the staff, until he came to a hallway balcony and was met with the sight of Prouvaire sitting on the edge with one leg drawn up to his chest and the other dangling off the edge of the building and swinging gently. He was staring out at the slowly rising sun, long hair over one shoulder in a messy braid and a bird at his foot. Enjolras slowed his gait and tiptoed quietly past the large open doors. However, Prouvaire apparently had ridiculously batlike hearing and whipped his head round to see Enjolras raised on the tip of his toes. He swung his legs round to sit with feet pointed towards the ground and facing Enjolras.

“Good morning!”

Enjolras winced at the chirpy tone; of _course_ Jehan would still be as much a morning person as they all had been as children. “’morning, Jehan.”

 “You’re up early. Did you come to see the sun rise? You’re carrying writing material! I should start doing that; the most wonderful words come to me as the sun’s first light kisses those hills over there” – he pointed languidly in the general direction of those distant hills – “and they just sort of fade as the day goes on. I guess there’s a kind of fleeting beauty in that, though...”

“Jehan, look, a mockingbird!”

Jehan turned to glance, and sure enough, there was a mockingbird hovering behind his shoulder. Yes, the same one that was tormenting Enjolras in the wee hours of the morning. Recognising a kindred spirit in the bird, he whistled at it and smiled ever so charmingly as it settled on his shoulder, piping shrilly. Jehan turned back to face an empty space, Enjolras now down the corridor and around the corner.

“I made a new frieeeend.” was the cry that followed Enjolras and a slight sense of dread fell over him with the oddest memory of birdsong.

Giving up on stealth, Enjolras walked normally through the bowels of the castle following staircase after staircase as he descended deeper into the depths, dropping by the already bustling and steaming kitchens to steal two bread rolls with a disarmingly delightful smile. Guards A and B stood hastily to attention as he entered the top of the dungeon, Guard A blinking sleep away as he clung to his spear to pull himself up at a poke from Guard B.

Grantaire didn’t stir at the sound of Enjolras reaching the bottom of the stairs. Instead he let out a very loud snore and rolled over. Well, tried to roll over. Pallets are narrow; they don’t tend to allow for much rolling and so the attempted roll ended in a loud curse and a messy haired figure trying to extricate himself from a red blanket over his head. Enjolras smirked at the muffled oaths and wails that royal blankets were evil, and tucked the smile away as Grantaire finally freed himself from his confines, as he stood and glared at the defeated blanket beast.

Whirling around at Enjolras’ quiet cough, he grinned, his whole face lighting up, “Bit early for you, isn’t it?”

“I brought parchment and ink, I hope that’s enough.”

“Should be. Gods, but you look exhausted, did you sleep at _all_?”

“No.”

Grantaire seemed taken aback by the abrupt answer. “Apollo, even gods need rest.”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras passed one of the bread rolls through the bars. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“Aw, you shouldn’t have.”

“You’re helping us to capture one of the most dangerous men in the kingdom, I certainly should have.”

“... point.”

Enjolras dragged the stool in the corner in front of the bars once more and sat, setting the ink, quills and parchment beside him, tearing the second roll into two steaming halves. Eyes fixed on Grantaire, who had folded the blanket in half to sit on with his back against the bars and was now trying to reach the parchment with half a roll sticking out of his mouth, he forgot to pay heed to his own warning about the heat and almost dropped one torn off piece with a stifled swear.

“Tut tut, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Enjolras toed Grantaire in the back and then carefully handed him an ink bottle before dropping a quill on his head, pointy end first.

“Ow, all right, all right; I get it, no mother jokes!”

So saying, he began to draw and Enjolras watched as a face began forming through strong sure strokes of ink. The blackness of the ink suited that face; elegant and thin with dead looking eyes. Enjolras shivered involuntarily as Grantaire passed him the finished sketch.

“That’s how I remember him last.”

“We owe you a great debt.”

“Our accord was my release.”

“Nevertheless. If ever you need me, ask the guards...”

“To be serious?”

Enjolras let out a huff of surprised laughter, “Very well, yes.”

He ordered the cell unlocked and the Grantaire followed as Enjolras led them further down into the very bones of the castle. No castle is ever complete without secret escape tunnels and believe you me, Enjolras and his merry band knew most of them, courtesy of Courfeyrac and Jehan and their shared penchant for making their caretakers quiver with rage.

Their chosen tunnel led outside to a path not far underneath the main bridge, snaking around the castle. The sun had risen fully now, the air shimmered with the promise of a bright new day and there was something in Grantaire’s expression – something beyond gratitude – as he turned to look back at Enjolras, hand raised in farewell at the tunnel mouth.

And Enjolras watched as Grantaire walked away, wondering why the world was still turning and time was still going when clearly there was an aching void left by this strange young man who had dropped into his life and sauntered out of it without a second thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Prince!jolras hijacked my brain after [this](http://utterlydeceptivetwaddlespeak.tumblr.com/post/43897153280/mybelovedcheshire-utterlydeceptivetwaddlespeak-re).
> 
> Comments will appreciated, dusted off and displayed in a glass cabinet to fawn over. And then answered. Probably.


End file.
